Breaking Normal
by Sopwith the Lunar Sentinel
Summary: When a teenage physicist and his friends find something in their Bunker, nothing can save them from the ensuing hilarity. Rated M for stuff not written in yet. (ON EXTENDED HIATUS, WRITING A FICTION THROUGH FICTIONPRESS) ( WILL REWRITE TO EXCLUDE CROSSOVER ELEMENTS SOMEDAY)
1. Interesting Beginnings

**I OWN NOTHING**

**Valve, Hasbro, if you're reading this, HI! Oh, and please don't sue me**

Cafeteria food is terrible. The moment I sit down and think about eating ANY of Bunker 1305's food is the moment I die inside. I read once that in a Hellish place, a place that will mentally grind you into dust, you hold on to one facet of your personality- a virtue, of sorts. That sliver of normalcy is what will keep you sane- it's the tiny, tiny piece of yourself that you never let go of- and if you do, you will get shredded into nothingness by the world you live in.

My virtue is the distinct hatred for cafeteria food. As long as I know that I hate it, I can eat it without a problem. Otherwise, I'd lose myself to a sea of blackness, waiting to die. And I'd probably die from Mystery Meat.

So, for sustenance, I try to rely on my time outside 1305, scavenging for anything edible. Mostly, I find fruits and berries. There's a blackberry bush about a quarter-mile from 1305's entrance, which is pilfered monthly. I hunt, as well. If I don't kill it, it's either Human, or it escaped. If I DO kill it, I eat it. Rabbits, the occasional snake, et cetera. If I'm really, REALLY lucky, I score a deer. Then I can eat well for at least a week and a half, if I ration it right.

Bunker 1305 is a fallout shelter, an Army base, and a recruitment center all rolled into one. It's designed to protect its 1,000-some occupants in case of nuclear warfare. 50,000 Shelters were built in America alone, along with 10,000 Bunkers. The Shelters were designed to protect civilians from alien threats, including nuclear bombardment, worldwide invasion, et cetera, et cetera. The Bunkers, however, house soldiers, equipment, vehicles, and weapons- an 'Army in a can', so to speak- ready to defend the Shelters and regain control over the citizens; creating a makeshift government. Other than a few layout changes, their general purpose, their occupants and what they contain, Shelters and Bunkers are identical. Thankfully, they haven't been needed yet. On the event which they _are_ needed, they would be sealed up until the threat passes, and opened once civilization was ready to reassert itself.

However, I'm not like the other residents of 1305- on my first day living in the Bunker my CO says I'm one hell of a kid, 'surviving' and all. I ask him what he means by that, and he reminds me of what happened when I was twelve years old- I was at a junior robotics competition in New York, gunning for first prize. I had to design and build a fighting machine, capable of incapacitating other 'bots until mine was the last one standing. Little did we know, someone- or something- had planted a bomb across the street, aiming to cause mass panic. When it detonated, a large chunk of a car flew through the building, and it landed on me. Between that and other shrapnel, I ended up in the hospital with no left arm below the elbow, two useless stumps for legs, a missing eye, and most of my lower spine was shattered. The moment I woke up, and realized what I had become, I wished that they had just let me die.

With my one good eye and my one functional appendage, I pushed myself as hard as I could to study. Study every day, study every night, skip eating the hospital food (too close to cafeteria food anyway), just learn. Learn, learn, learn. Anatomy. Physics. Engineering. Applied robotics. Advanced electronics and circuitry. Anything that I could use to make me human again. I called in specialists, tutors, hell, the Make-A-Wish foundation thought I'd die and got Neil DeGrasse Tyson to talk with me in person for an hour or so.

Two years later, with my newfound knowledge, I told the doctors my plan- reopen old wounds. Cut away the useless flesh. Make me able to walk again, so I could enjoy myself. And they said no. Too risky, and not enough payoff for the massive effort required. So, with more studying, more learning, more knowledge, I went through college. After that, I got a job at Aperture Laboratories, and helped design the Handheld Portal Device. Not long after, I got a transfer to the Black Mesa Research Facility in New Mexico. I helped test the Zero Point Energy Field Manipulator, and eventually I pitched my plan to the Black Mesa medical team. And they _liked_ it.

Another year goes by, and my new legs are working wonderfully. My left arm is no longer useless, with a hydraulic prosthetic in its place. It works as natural as a prosthetic can- oil in the tubes is moved by my own muscles and tendons- making a near-perfect replacement. My eye socket now houses a bionic eye, and my spine replaced with links of rubber and steel, with copper acting as the spinal cord. And I can walk again. Fantastic.

Now, two years later, and I live in Bunker 1305 with my small collection of various left arm prosthetics. There's the basic one, powered by battery, that's always on the joint. It folds into whatever prosthetic I'm wearing, becoming my go-to backup arm. Then, there's the tool arm. A hammer, a flashlight (Which I don't use often, there's an LED embedded in my bionic eye), an electric screwdriver, and a large collection of bits, blades, and drivers. I even have a washing arm, complete with soap dispenser, comb, hair dryer, razor, and loofa.

But my pride and joy, the one arm I save for just the right occasion, the one I love above all others- is the GAME-class Phys-Arm. The Gravity/Aperture Manipulative Emitter is a prosthetic with both a Handheld Portal Device, a ZPEFM, and several electromagnets housed inside it, along with large heating coils running through my fingers, allowing me to pick up barrels of flammable materials, superheat them, and send them on their merry, flaming way with the ZPEFM. A few simple thoughts control the device, the 'business end' being located on my palm. Instead of calling it the ASHPD-ZPEFM Prosthetic Arm, I just call it 'The GAME'. It was the GAME that got me into the Bunker in the first place- Bunker 1305 needed a science team, and looking at my portfolio, decided I was the one of the best options. So, they asked for me. I needed a job, (and a place to live,) so I didn't decline. They brought me in and gave me the full tour of Bunker 1305. It was love at first sight.

They had the best life anyone surviving the apocalypse could ask for- A huge research center, an entire room for maker machines (3D printers, circuit board printers, and the like), a testing hall for electronics, a shooting range, and even a training room for melee combat hand-to-hand or otherwise. The only thing missing for a teenage physicist such as myself would be a high-energy particle accelerator.

So, after a good six months living here, I can say it's pretty nice. It's essentially a militarized utopia for me- with exception of the food, of course. Now, training with my favorite blade in the Melee Room, is where my adventure really begins.

* * *

**A/N: What do you think? It's been a long time since any of my ideas were up to scratch, and even longer since I've acted on them. Tell me what you think!**

**Also, the Ponies will show up soon, I promise.**

**Toodles,**

**Sopwith**


	2. What is this I don't even

**I OWN NOTHING**

**Valve, Hasbro, if you're reading this, HI! Oh, and please don't sue me**

The air was filled with the sound of clashing metal as I brought my right fist to my face. The 27-inch blade of my Punisher sword ran from my elbow to a good foot past my fist. It was strapped to my right forearm, and deflected Breauna's short slash in a downwards direction. She staggered slightly, giving me an opening. But, before I could force the training blade down onto her shoulder, (a strike that would win the match) she brought her other arm up, another dagger in her hand, and 'stabbed' me in the crotch. I doubled over, clutching my genitals, as the PA system announced the end of the match. My balls would be sore for at least three days. I knew this because she had beaten me with a similar move last week, only she was using a war hammer that she had affectionately dubbed the BAN-Hammer.

Why Breauna, Bunker 1305's resident bladesmistress, even spars with me at all in the first place is a long story. Bunker life is difficult at times, especially when all Bunker personnel are required to stay within one mile of the Bunker's entrance. Even though there were many sports arenas, courts, fields and the like outside of 1305, no one had bothered to clear the foliage nearby, and three decades of Appalachian nature had not been kind to these places. Most were littered with the thick foliage of the Appalachian mountains, but the others were so unkempt that they were not likely to be found again. This being said, extreme measures of stress relief are not unheard of within 1305's concrete walls, but it usually occurs in the confines of your own _personal_ walls, being your quarters. This is why when I found some 'compromising' pictures of her on one of the mess hall's lunch tables she jumped on the chance to keep them out of everyone else's hands, _especially _the men. You do NOT want pictures of you cosplaying at all, much less as an immortal vampire, floating around your Bunker. Unless, of course, you _like _being embarrassed.

Why she didn't just kick my ass and take the pictures in the first place is still a mystery to me; she could've done it quite easily. She still can, even with the training she's been giving me.

I unstrapped the training sword from my arm and whirled the dull blade about in a stylish flair. My left arm, in the default prosthetic mode (Simply a light titanium frame with a little bit of hydraulics, nothing major) gently cradled my jewels as I limped toward the weapon rack. All of my prosthetics are designed to withstand the toughest beatings, and even then the damage would be almost entirely (If not wholly) cosmetic. Even so, I don't like taking chances.

"Nice game" Breauna says, mounting her daggers on the upper half of the rack. Her left shoulder was emblazoned with a tattoo of a wolf. The mark always intimidates me for some reason, and the taciturn, calculating manner that she normally adopts makes her even more threatening.

Not to be impolite, I respond.

"You kicked my ass. Again."

"You're still learning."

"No, I'm not. You're not teaching me."

"Touché."

My arm-mounted blade clamped into place on the rack, and I made a mental note to take it to Jack Modus, one of 1305's machinists, to have it fully sharpened and functional. His Native American heritage had inspired him to take the nickname Crimson Hammer.

I willed my prosthetic to minimize itself, and I lost the sensation of fingers as the arm was freed from the mortal coils of my nervous system. I reached down and picked up my shower-arm, which was sitting on a towel on a chair in the viewing room, where spectators could observe the match. I pushed the shower-arm against the socket, like a plug going into a wall socket, except the plug is a piece of washing equipment and the socket is part of a three-million-dollar human being. A satisfying _click_ and the short, shocking sensation of nerves connecting with electrodes let me know that my shower-arm was in place. I let my arm hang freely at my side, before a step toward the men's locker room sent another lance of pain through my manly bits, and my free hand to my crotch.

It's gonna be a long day.

* * *

I hobbled down 1305's main hall past the astronomy lounge (Appropriately named _Second Star on the Left _after the professions of its founders, an astrologist and a cartographer), making a mental note to stop by later and find out when the next Solar Eclipse would be visible. Such sights as this are rare, especially when you're tethered to a fortress embedded in the side of a mountain, but the view at the peak is awe-inspiring, unbridled beauty.

I, however, wanted to see farther. All I had known for these six months is the small ten-mile visible radius from the top of the mountain. I had actually started counting the trees once, only stopping to hunt. When I came back, fresh fox meat in tow, I had forgotten where I left off. Now imagine that cycle repeating constantly over the course of four days. This is before I had the capability to mark people, places and things on my bionic eye's HUD. That update was actually quite recent, being just over a month ago. It would have made my self-appointed task much easier, but it would have also made it feasibly possible, and thus uninteresting.

So, instead of doing the SMART thing and designing an observation tower or a small rocket with surveillance equipment, I decided to go out farther. I wanted to see what was beyond the horizon, what kind of people there were. While this may seem silly to you, keep in mind I've spent the last seven years of my life away from most normal human contact, save a few friends from elementary school, who had forgotten and abandoned me long ago anyway.

In order to get farther out, I needed a way to get back fast. While the punishment for being off-grounds is minor for enlisted members, critical personnel experience much harsher sentencing. I could lose my job, my home, and my friends in one fell swoop. So again, instead of doing the smart thing and using the GAME to plant a portal here, then take a piece of cardboard for the other portal when I wanted to come back, I decided to design a warp device. It would latch on to the RFID tag at the top of my spinal column, and literally teleport me back to base.

You could say that for a kid that literally rebuilt himself using only his mind and a few not-so-sane scientists at a top secret research lab in New Mexico, I had a shocking lack of common sense and problem solving capability.

A for effort, though.

The thing is, I didn't do it right. I did it wrong. I was stupid.

And that nearly got me killed. In a way, it did.

* * *

Breauna stopped by my workshop/office (which is right next to the training room) as I put the finishing touches on my for-my-eyes-only warp device. Not wanting her (or anyone else, for that matter) to see it, I quickly slid it under my desk and slammed my laptop shut, hiding the plans from view.

"Do I even wanna know what kind of stuff you're into?" she asked, in an accusatory tone.

I panicked. '_Oh jeez, she knows. She can't know. I'll get fired for this. It's the pictures, isn't it? She's getting back at me for knowing about her cosplaying. Oh, no… Oh, no, no, no…'_

And then, with a sigh of relief (and a blush), I realized she thought I was watching 'adult films'. Again, stress relief _within the confines of your own personal walls _was not uncommon here.

I stammered, attempting to formulate a logical, if not coherent, thought. "Uhm… No, it's not what it looks like. I mean, it-it's not what it doesn't look like either, but… IT'S NOT ANYTHING LEAVE ME ALONE NOW THANKS BYE", I yelled, as I ducked under my desk, the warp device quietly humming next to my head. _Why is it active? _I thought to myself. _This is bad_, I thought again. _It shouldn't be on._

I meekly peeked over the desk, seeing her smiling face still in the doorway.

She laughed. Since I don't think you fully grasp the significance of that statement, I'm going to write it again, with **bold**, underline, IN ALL CAPS, and _italics_, and then tell you the significance of that statement.

_**SHE LAUGHED.**_

Not at me, either. She was… Giggling. At me. My mannerisms. Then I thought… She's a decade older than me… Wait a minute… She thinks I'm cute?!

"Oh, sure. Just let me know if I can… _Help_ you with anything."

No. This takes on a whole new level of **NO.**

She continued. "Like maybe something to get you back to your bunk in a jiffy, if you're caught in a bind."

What. How did she even-

"I've been watching you, Tom. Don't think for a minute that I don't know everything you do."

Okay, why was she spying on me? And- Oh, how much did she know? Did she see me get covered in deer crap when I was hunting, and I had to wait to late hours to sneak in completely naked?

Either way, this conversation was quickly going downhill. I desperately wanted to dig a hole under my desk, bury myself there, and live there for a week.

The lean woman walked to my desk and spoke in a low tone.

"I want to come with you. On this baby's maiden voyage, I mean." She patted my desk for emphasis.

That wouldn't work, the RFID was attached to _me_, it would teleport only _me_ back to the pad happily whirring away under my desk.

"I can't. You'll lose your job; you couldn't get you back in time. They'd find you too soon."

"Either you beat me in a sparring match, or I come with you."

I hate decisions. I hate them. **SO. MUCH**. Especially when I've been up for hours tring to perfect coding for something that I can't ask anyone to check or test or even see if it's safe.

"Fine. I beat you, and you stay here. Got it?"

She nodded.

"Good. How about tomorrow before breakfast?"

"Sounds fine to me." She replied.

With that, she left me to my studies. After a while of tinkering, it was complete, and ready for a test run. So was my bed. I needed sleep. Very, very badly.

* * *

The next morning, I decided to kill two birds with one stone. (Hopefully) beat Breauna in a swordfight and pick up my blade on my way to experience the lands.

In my haste to explore the outdoors, I had affixed my GAME arm (Which had been modified slightly to accommodate the signal transceiver to the warp device) instead of my default prosthetic, but it would be fine. Nothing a tank of nanobots can't fix in a few minutes, especially if it's just cosmetic. Without further interruption, I walked into the training room and picked up my favorite weapon, the punisher sword, before discarding it. I had sharpened it; it would be too dangerous for a simple sparring match. Instead, I picked up a shortsword.

Breauna arrived wearing- oh, my… That's beautiful.

She was wearing advanced lightweight body armor designed to protect against slashes. It was made to stop as many different blows as possible and use the least amount of material. A few titanium bars stretched over her form like a grid, like huge-chain mail. This would stop most slicing attacks, protecting the wearer with minimal supply usage.

The only reason I knew that at first glance is because I designed it along with my exoskeletal lift suit, still in a display case in the back of my office.

She picked up her favorite warhammer and took up a fighting stance.

The match began as the PA system chimed on overhead.

'ROUND… BEGIN!'

And the first thing she did was swing at my GAME, hitting it square in the warp transceiver.

The world around me flashed white as a yellow-orange-ish being popped into existence to my right, about two feet off the floor. My bionic eye's HUD marked it as a friendly. I looked over at it as it fell to the floor with a meaty thud and a yelp. It resembled a small… Horse? No, _pony_ would be a better word. It began to stand. More importantly, I'm pretty sure neither horses or ponies actually yelp.

Okay, _Not _pony, I thought to myself as I noticed a strange protrusion on its forehead. _Unicorn_, I corrected. With a tattoo of a pickaxe on its ass. Then it began to speak with a thick country accent, startling both Breauna and myself even more than before.

"Hi! Ah'm Comstock!"

Okay, no more cafeteria food, EVER. The Mystery Meat is becoming hallucinogenic.

* * *

_**(A/N): Whoever can name all the references to other fanfictions in this chapter gets +1**_** internet.**

_**Comments and reviews are appreciated.**_

_**Toodles,**_

_**Sopwith**_


	3. Interlude 1

**I OWN NOTHING**

**Valve, Hasbro, if you're reading this, HI! Oh, and please don't sue me**

**Three Weeks Earlier**

"OW!" I exclaimed as another massive jolt of pain flew up my spine. I was convulsing with each wave of agony. I thought I was drooling, but I couldn't really tell. I was lying on my stomach on a stretcher in one of 1305's Operating Rooms.

"Be STILL!" Matt bellowed furiously, startling me. His unusually large frame and rough appearance made him the kind of 'doctor' you'd find in a back alley of Detroit who would give you a procedure on the cheap, and then borrow one of your kidneys. However, Matthew 'Doc' Stillwater was the nicest guy- and one of the best neurologists- on the face of the Earth, and possibly beyond. His buttery smooth British accent made him that much more awesome.

"I can't! Do you even KNOW how much this… AGH!" I screamed at him. Even with Doc doing this, it was painful.

"I DO know how much this hurts, and YOU know I can't anesthetize you. Dear Lord, man, you told ME I couldn't do it!" he yelled, referring to the simple and monotonous (Yet excruciating) process of replacing my spinal conduits. He closed the small metal hatch over the disc he had just replaced. I needed to be awake and alert to make sure I could still move my limbs after each disc was replaced. Not only were the old discs too small for my growing frame, but I had decided to replace the old copper conduits with more expensive, though more efficient, silver ones. Last week I replaced my legs and pelvis with larger versions of themselves. Next week I'd be replacing my shoulder. This was hopefully the last time I'd have to do any of this.

Unlike my prosthetic arm, powered by my own tendons through hydraulics, my legs were driven by powerful electric motors at each joint. Not only did this make them extremely strong, they also looked, and sounded, absolutely badass. The steady Vrrt-Clunk Vrrt-Clunk of their boot-like feet landing on 1305's concrete floor makes me smile with glee.

"OW!" I screamed in agony. Again.

"Relax you buffoon. This is the last one!" he boomed, obviously irritated by my tremors of pain. He closed the final hatch and screwed it shut.

"Dear… Mother… of God…" I panted. "I thank You… that this is over…" I relaxed, eyes closed, my body still trembling. My arm hung off the side of the stretcher, slowly beginning to ache with the blood pooling in it. "And tomorrow we replace the reactor?" Matt queried. I responded with a firm nod, which was somewhat difficult, as I still lay face-down.

* * *

The next day, hobbling to the OR with my new, slightly taller build, I ached. As I arrived, Doc greeted me with a firm handshake. "Are you ready?" He asked.

"Yes. Just try not to kill me this time."

"Well, this time I can put you under, remember?" He smiled. I smiled back, hiding my feeling of being slightly sick. The process of replacing the reactor core had only been done once before. While it was fairly safe, there was always a chance of failure. We both knew this, and even though the consequences of said failure are almost always never fatal (or permanent), we had an unspoken agreement to not mention it. I removed my shirt and stepped into the OR as he washed up and prepared for the procedure. He would remove the cover over three discs and vertebrae and remove the old shielded core. He'd then replace it with a fresher, more active one. The process was simple, but the pain of missing six bits of your spine was unbearable. The hour-long process usually warranted assistance from at least one nurse, but as none were present (and none knew what they were doing), our mutual friend Jane Thrale was called in. Not only was she good friends with the Doc, she had also helped me refine my crappy programming for several of my dozen-or-so arms.

As I lay on the table, Doc put a mask to my face. I knew the drill. Count back from one hundred until I fall asleep.

"One hundred… Ninety-nine… Ninety-eight…" I tried my best to mutter as the world around me slipped away.

"Ninety-seven… Ninety-six… Ninety… Five…" My perception faded into blackness.

"Ninety… Four…"

"Ninety…"

"Three…"

* * *

A smile took over my face as I strode through the motor pool, passing several troop transports and buggy-like Light Assault Vehicles as I homed in on my target. The morning light shining down the ramp to the outside world gave the massive garage a cheery yellow glow. The steady clanking of tools and the occasional whir of a pneumatic wrench filled the air, and the smell of oil, gasoline, and diesel actually made me a little happy. It means something's getting done.

I walked up to a giant mechanical walker, deciding to take a detour from my current pursuit. This would get her attention anyway. The olive drab walker was a thing of beauty. Its thirty-foot steel frame was emblazoned with a few dozen numbers, classifications, and the like. Most of them were little red rectangles with the words 'NOT A STEP' printed on them, and a few 'REMOVE BEFORE USE' flags dotted its arms and legs. Its cockpit reminded me of an attack helicopter's windscreen. The unloaded missile pods on each shoulder added to the intimidation factor, as did the Vulcan miniguns mounted to each forearm. Stenciled on the side of the cockpit in white spray-paint was this walker's specific name, 'PERSUADER', which quite accurately described it. It looked like something out of a science fiction movie, or like something Chuck Norris would use for a quiet Sunday drive. In my spare time, I had actually started taking training classes on how to use it. I'd never have the clearance, but it seemed like a nice skill to have.

"Hey!" I heard a familiar voice call out behind me. "Get away from her, you- Oh. It's you."

I turned towards her and smirked. "Hello, Miss Fairwood. May I call you Breauna?"

Her jeans and t-shirt told me that she was taking the day off. "Why would I let you do that? You barely even know me"

I took a step towards her, my legs making that awesome sound again. "Because I know things that you know. And these are things that you don't want ANYONE to know."

"And what would these things be?"

I reached into my shorts' cargo pocket and produced a single photo. I flashed it to her, and placed it back in my pocket. She reached into her pockets, as if looking for something. Finding nothing, she went pale. My smirk grew larger.

"Let's come to an agreement. You train me in swordsmanship, and this photo stays off of the internet, and off the bulletin board in the mess hall."

"You wouldn't dare. I'll get you court-martialed for blackmail!" She retorted. She did have a point…

I continued my assault, mocking: "Local swordsmistress cosplays as vampire! Pictures are available in the Science wing. Fifty cents apiece. First seventy-five to arrive get it free. Get 'em while they last!"

She blushed. I resisted the urge not to giggle.

"F- Fine." She stammered. "But if I see that picture ANYWHERE, I will END YOU."

I was slightly taken aback by this statement, but I didn't let it show.

"Good. I'll meet you tomorrow morning in your training room?"

She reluctantly agreed, growling. "Damn you…"

I walked out, passing PERSUADER, with my head high and my spirits higher.

Oh yeah. This is the life.

* * *

**A short little bit of backstory. Expect more before the end of Spring Break.**

**You can leave a review with suggestions, if you'd like! I pretty much have the next two chapters planned out, but ideas are always welcome.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**Toodles,**

**Sopwith**


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